Collado Hermoso

The bells of San Pedro strike eight and the valley answers back with silence. At 1,200 metres, Collado Hermoso is already awake—smoke rising from limestone chimneys, a farmer leading three chestnut cows down a lane barely wider than a Morris Minor—yet the village makes no concession to the clock. Madrid lies 80 km south-east, but the motorway might as well be on another planet; up here the sierra decides when the road is passable, when the water flows, when the day begins.

Stone, Snow and the Smell of Pine

Houses grow out of the slope. Granite footings grip the bedrock, upper floors timbered with beams that once carried mule trains across the pass. Some walls still wear the original iron rings for tying horses; others have been patched with whatever came to hand—an old millstone, a grave slab turned upside-down, a lintel carved 1634 that now frames a garage. Nothing is “restored” in the pastel-and-geranium sense; instead the village is simply maintained, generation by generation, until the colour of the stone matches the colour of the inhabitants’ memories.

Winters arrive early. The first snow can dust the rooftops in October and linger in the lanes until April. When drifts block the SV-231, locals switch to skis or snow-shoes to reach the bakery van parked on the main road—an arrangement that feels perfectly ordinary until you remember most Spanish guidebooks still describe Segovia as “the dry Spain”. Temperatures dip to –12 °C at night, yet the air is so thin and dry that a damp British cold of 2 °C can feel worse. Come May, however, the pastures explode with wild orchids and the scent of thyme rises so strongly you taste it before you see it.

Tracks That Remember Traders

No gift-shop maps here. The best walking leaves directly from the village fountain: a stone trough where women once rinsed sheets and gossiped in equal measure. Follow the Camino de la Quesera south-west and you are retracing the route that once carried cheese from Segovia’s high summer pastures to Madrid’s winter markets. The climb to the Puerto de la Quesera is 6 km and 450 m of ascent—stiff enough to make you grateful for the broom-handle walking stick left leaning against a pine by some earlier hiker. From the pass the view opens north across the Ríafría valley; on a clear afternoon you can pick out the slate roof of the royal palace at La Granja, 15 km away, glinting like a pin on a green cushion.

If altitude feels unkind, drop instead into the valley of the Río Cambrones. A circular 8 km track follows the stream through holm oak and rebollón pine, crossing the water eight times on flat stones laid by miners who extracted lead here in the 1920s. Roe deer watch from the undergrowth; Iberian magpies clatter overhead. The path emerges at the 17th-century stone bridge of Los Molinos, where an outdoor table and the smell of charcoal announce Bar La Quesería. Grilled lamb chops cost €9 a plate, salad extra, wine out of a plastic jug—no cards, no fuss, no hurry.

A Church That Outlived Its Bishop

San Pedro Apóstol stands at the highest navigable point of the lane, its Romanesque apse squashed between later additions like a medieval afterthought. Step inside and the temperature drops five degrees; the limestone walls breathe winter even in July. The altar is plain pine, the frescoes 18th-century but already flaking, revealing older ochre stars beneath. No audioguues, no donation box—just a handwritten notice requesting silence “por respeto a los vecinos que descansan” (out of respect for neighbours resting). Sunday mass is at 11:00; arrive ten minutes early and someone will press a missal into your hand whether you understand Spanish or not.

Outside, the bell tower doubles as the village time-piece. The single bronze bell was cast in 1763 in nearby Sepúlveda; crack it and you would face the wrath of 120 inhabitants plus the priest. At festival times—particularly the fiestas of San Pedro on 29 June—local lads compete to ring it longest without pause, a contest judged by elders who have heard every false note since 1954.

Food the Sierra Forgot to Trademark

Forget tasting menus. Collado Hermoso eats what the mountain provides, when it provides it. In September the forests yield níscalos (saffron milk-caps) that appear in scrambled eggs at Posada Fuenteplateada, the village’s only upmarket address (doubles from €120, dinner around €35). Spring brings verduras de monte—wild asparagus and thistle hearts—served simply blanched with olive oil and shards of local sheep’s cheese. Year-round staples are judiones, the giant butter beans grown in the fertile flats near Arévalo, stewed here with partridge rather than the more common chorizo. Ask for “una ración para compartir” and you receive a clay bowl big enough for two hungry walkers plus bread to mop the juice. Vegetarians are tolerated rather than courted; the fallback is migas—fried breadcrumbs with garlic and grapes—elevated to main-course status by shepherds who once carried nothing more than flour and a flask of oil.

Coffee comes single-shot unless you plead; milk is hot in winter, tepid in summer. Brandies are measured by finger-width, the barman’s not yours. Tipping is rounding up to the next euro—anything more marks you as either generous or lost.

Getting There, Staying Put

Public transport demands patience. From Madrid’s Moncloa station, catch the 721 to El Espinar (hourly, €5.40, 55 min), then the school bus that leaves El Espinar plaza at 14:15 on weekdays only, returning 07:30 next morning. Miss it and a taxi costs €35—if the one local driver feels like working. By car, take the AP-6 to San Rafael, then the CL-601 north for 22 km; the final 9 km on the SV-231 wriggles through pine forest and is officially “not recommended for caravans” between November and April. Snow chains live in every boot; if you haven’t got them, the Guardia Civil will turn you back.

Accommodation is limited. Posada Fuenteplateada has nine rooms, under-floor heating thick enough to thaw hiking boots, and a small spa using mountain water—book early for October mushroom weekends. Alternative is Casa Rural Los Pajaritos (three apartments, €70–€90 per night), converted from an 1890 grain store whose original weighing scales still hang in the lounge. Both supply detailed walking notes; neither offers televisions, though Wi-Fi reaches most rooms when the wind blows from the south.

When to Come, When to Leave

April and May deliver green meadows, daytime 15–18 °C, cold nights and orchids in every ditch. September into early October matches that with golden beech woods and the smell of mushrooms. Mid-summer is surprisingly comfortable—25 °C at noon, cool enough for a fleece after 19:00—though Spanish families descend for August fiestas, filling the single bar until 02:00 and doubling room rates. Winter is magnificent if you can handle real cold and the chance of being snowed in; carry emergency chocolate and accept that your itinerary is subject to the sierra’s approval.

Leave before you start recognising every dog by name. Collado Hermoso functions because people still live, argue, marry and die here; tourism is incidental, not essential. Take your rubbish out with you, nod to the old man who sweeps his threshold each dawn, and remember the village belongs to the frost, the pines and the 120 souls who stay when the last car disappears down the pass.